


Leather and Steel

by manic_intent



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Just an excuse to write in some motorcycle kink, M/M, That modern!Thedas AU where the events of DA:I more or less happen anyway, because motorcycles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 14:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3252809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian had scarcely read through the first chapter when a shuffle of footsteps stopped outside his nook. He glanced up, a little warily, then set the book down on his lap in surprise: it was General Cullen, of all people, still in his military uniform, the khaki pressed to razor edges, the collar blood red against his throat, the gold star of his rank bright and high over his sleeves. </p><p>“General,” Dorian greeted Cullen, when Cullen seemed to hesitate. Hells, but the man was ridiculously handsome, more so than Dorian had expected: it wasn’t just the uniform, at that - there was something deliciously attractive about a gorgeous man who was utterly unaware that he was gorgeous. “Something the matter?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leather and Steel

**Author's Note:**

> @typhlotictiger asked for a DA:I Cullrian modern AU. I asked whether that meant DA set in the modern world or urban fantasy!Thedas but it seems either is fine so… here’s a urban fantasy!Thedas, Shadowrun style. :3 I’m not a Shadowrun reader by any means, but I’ve played the last couple of games on Steam and they were awesome. It’s very much magic with guns. (Note: It was either this or write some terrible story about Cullen meeting Dorian through Grindr ahaha)
> 
> EDIT: And art.  
> 

I.

The library was a pleasant surprise. Skyhold was cold and dry: many of its abandoned shelves of books still remained, more or less intact, some old enough that their bindings were leather and not card. Nothing recent, of course, not since whatever mysterious force had caused this old keep to be left to the snow and the stone, but Dorian propped an old chair in an airy nook, beside the glass window clouded with age, and picked up a book at random.

Dorian had scarcely read through the first chapter when a shuffle of footsteps stopped outside his nook. He glanced up, a little warily, then set the book down on his lap in surprise: it was General Cullen, of all people, still in his military uniform, the khaki pressed to razor edges, the collar blood red against his throat, the gold star of his rank bright and high over his sleeves. 

“General,” Dorian greeted Cullen, when Cullen seemed to hesitate. Hells, but the man was ridiculously handsome, more so than Dorian had expected: it wasn’t just the uniform, at that - there was something deliciously attractive about a gorgeous man who was utterly unaware that he was gorgeous. “Something the matter?”

“May I have a moment?” 

Dorian replaced the book on the shelf, making a show of it to hide his grin. Cullen noticed, however: the General looked a little puzzled as Dorian got to his feet, his tan brown coat crinkling a little over his button-up shirt and black skinny jeans. Cullen hesitated for a moment, then he started to walk, and Dorian kept pace, trying his best to pretend not to notice as Inquisition staff either stepped out of his way or watched him with open unfriendliness. 

They ended up in Cullen’s office, the antique desk within it already swallowed up by console screens and a tower that whirred gently to itself where it squatted on the desk, cables kept in neat spools by plastic ties. No books in Cullen’s office: not that the General needed them - from where Dorian stood, Cullen’s irises had a faint sheen of silver. Most soldiers in this day and age tended to have cyberware of some sort - at least outside the Imperium.

Cullen noticed his stare, and seemed self-conscious for a moment as he turned, hands folded behind his back. “I’ve heard that implants aren’t common in Tevinter,” he said conversationally, rather than opening with whatever he wanted.

“Naturally. Mages can’t get cyberware unless they want their connection to the Fade disrupted, after all. Wearing implants in Tevinter marks you out as part of the herd.”

“But surely the percentage of mages isn’t that much higher than normal.”

“ _Looking_ like you might be a mage does wonders everywhere in Tevinter, sadly. Of course, it _did_ make our normal soldiers painfully ill-equipped to handle the qunari.”

“But Tevinter’s been at war with the Qunari for close to a decade.”

“Only because they don’t have trained mages. We cancel out.” Dorian tilted his head curiously. “Somehow I don’t think you called me here to discuss Tevinter politics.”

“Actually, ah. I called you here to apologize.”

“About what?”

“It came to my attention,” Cullen said stiffly, “That one of my sergeants spat at your feet this morning. I’ll like you to know that the man has since been reprimanded for his actions and, although perhaps not quite remorseful, will not be doing anything of the sort again.” 

“Oh, that.” Dorian said, bemused, then he smiled, thin and sharp. “Don’t bother yourself on my account, General.”

“It’s a matter of discipline,” Cullen said, with a touch more heat in his voice. “We’re the _Inquisition_. People come to us to stand against Corypheus. Regardless of race, or species. Bigotry can’t be tolerated.”

Dorian laughed, a short bark of it. “You’ll have your work cut out for you trying to root out something like that. No matter. I knew what my general reception would be. And I suppose it doesn’t help that the Venatori are from Tevinter.”

Cullen grumbled something under his breath at that, and added, “Your… that is to say, Tevinter mages. Are very good at EMP spells.”

“Making sure that bots and turrets don’t work? Oh yes. It was either that or get overrun by the Qunari war machine.”

Cullen sighed. “I was hoping that maybe we could bring in some Fereldan SAMs, install them on those watchtowers. In case the dragon came again. Other than it, Corypheus doesn’t have much air support.”

“He doesn’t need air support,” Dorian reminded him. “Tevinter doesn’t have much of an air force because EMP clouds and mage storms aren’t exactly discerning between friend and foe.”

“You’re not making me feel better here,” Cullen said wryly.

Dorian exhaled, grasping for patience. He had known this talk would come, of course, eventually, though he had thought he would’ve had it with Adaar, another mage. Allowing his mouth to curl into a sharp smile, Dorian stepped pointedly closer, and grasped Cullen high up on over his elbow, where he could feel the unyielding give of an augment, and he pushed his thumb against Cullen’s sleeve for a moment before letting go. 

“Deal with it the same way the Qunari have. Cyberware and smartlink weapons. I presume you’ve got the usual TEMPLAR fitout?” At Cullen’s slow nod, Dorian’s smile flattened into a thin line. “There you go. You hardly need _my_ advice about how to kill a mage.”

“Dorian I…” Cullen trailed off for a moment, then he coughed and cleared his throat. “That’s not what I was trying to… I didn’t mean to make it sound that way.” 

“Then?”

“Ah,” Cullen let out a frustrated breath. “It’s just that everyone’s been tiptoeing around you like you have the plague. I hate that. After you went to all that trouble to try and warn us. I just, well, wanted you to feel a little less like a stranger. Even if it was just for a moment.”

“I see.” Dorian felt himself thaw a little, his grin, this time, was wry rather than defensive. “Well then. Perhaps _I_ should apologize. I’ve learned to expect the worst from you Southerners.”

“I’m hoping that your stay in the Inquisition will be rather different,” Cullen said, and perhaps Dorian was reading a little too far into the faint, sweet little smile that the General was wearing - or perhaps he was just being cynical again. Averting his eyes, Dorian pretended to look about the recently rewired office, and saw a dusty checkered box, sitting on an otherwise empty shelf. 

“Chess? Do you play?”

“Not recently, but I used to.” A note of wistfulness entered Cullen’s voice. “There was a park in Kirkwall where you could play rounds of blitz against anyone… it’s the only thing I _do_ miss about that damned city.”

Why not. “If you’re looking for a chess partner, I’m happy to oblige.”

“Really?” There was something adorably boyish about the way Cullen’s expression brightened up instantly.

“Until your riggers get the datanet up and running,” Dorian affected insouciance, trying not to smile, “The only thing I have to occupy my time is alcohol and positively ancient books on religion, of all things. I’m not being charitable here.”

“Then I look forward to a match.” Cullen’s smile turned brilliant, devastatingly so, and Dorian had to look away again, glad that he wasn’t a man who blushed easily. “Thanks, Dorian.”

II.

Dorian wasn’t entirely certain how a chess match with Cullen had somehow led to _this_ : climbing onto the back of a sleek, black metal monster of a motorcycle, behind Cullen, fitting a spare helmet over his head that was most definitely going to ruin his hair.

“You’re going to… drive this thing over those narrow mountain roads up around here?”

“Ride, Dorian,” Cullen corrected, as he settled his hands over the handlebars with the possessive care of a lover. “ _Ride_ this thing.”

Dorian took in a slow breath, trying not to stare too obviously, trying to will down his quickening heart. “And I’m supposed to hang on… where precisely?”

“To me, obviously,” Cullen said, as though Dorian was being obtuse on purpose, and Dorian grimaced. 

“This is not going to be a great idea-“

“You said that you’ve never ridden a bike before. It’s a miracle she survived Haven as it is. So why not?”

“I hereby commit my soul to the Maker,” Dorian said, with exaggerated dismay, though he put his hands carefully on Cullen’s hips, then bit down on a yelp as Cullen grabbed his wrists and tucked them over his belly. _Hells_. Dorian could feel exactly how much Cullen was absolutely in shape, and he sucked in a slow breath as the metal beast beneath them roared to life.

They tore out of Skyhold, the startled glance of the gate guards an eye-watering blur that melded quickly to the dizzying drop over the old stone bridge, and the bike ate up the ground, voracious as it bit into the freshly-laid tarmac of the mountain road. Cullen’s lean frame seemed to burn with heat through his shirt and coat, and as they took a sharp curve, Dorian leaned his cheek over the General’s spine, a little tentatively, almost expecting Cullen to tense up.

“Having fun yet?” Cullen called out over the wind instead.

“I think I left my stomach back in Skyhold,” Dorian retorted, though he grinned to himself. Despite his original impressions, he _was_ beginning to enjoy himself: the speed, the perhaps unintentional intimacy of another body pressed against his, even the bestial thrum of the machine between his thighs. He was glad of the layers of clothes between them both, laughing as Cullen made another steep turn that veered too close to another edge.

“Careful, General. Are you trying to get us both killed?”

“Have _faith_.”

“You’re a speed demon in disguise!” Dorian accused him over the roar of the engine, and Cullen shot him one of his gorgeously playful smirks over his shoulder. 

For all that Dorian _did_ think that he was about to die once or twice in their insane ride down the mountain, careen off into space right behind Cullen, perhaps, crazy until the fiery last - they _did_ make it down, curling down a rocky side… path that was more of an afterthought of stone rather than a real road. Cullen slowed as the path’s incline levelled, and then they were out into something like a glade. 

It was tucked away in a valley, a small lake of springmelt, perhaps, fed by a thin brook, and surrounded by young firs. A shaggy, thick-pelted mountain ram stared at them for a moment in animal surprise before bounding away, scaling a sheer cliff with seemingly supernatural ease. Cullen killed the engine, and the glade returned to its benign calm as the General pulled off his helmet and strung it over a handlebar, slipping off the bike. 

Dorian was a little sorry that the ride was over. He sat back, pulling off his own helmet, then grimacing and raking a hand through his flattened hair. “Now I have helmet hair,” he complained, affecting petulance.

Cullen’s grin was infectious, something that Dorian hadn’t seen on the General before: all the stress, responsibility and worry pared away. He looked younger, even _more_ handsome, a vision right out of a daydream, and for a moment, Dorian’s breath caught in his throat before his cynicism took over. 

“I hope you didn’t take me here to kill me and dispose of the body,” Dorian drawled, and this time, Cullen rolled his eyes.

“Don’t ruin this for me, please.” Cullen leaned over, to Dorian’s surprise, _studying_ Dorian, as though memorising him, something soft in his grin now, that Dorian did not dare to name.

“Ruin what?” Dorian asked instead, quietly, the helmet still balanced on his lap, the bike yet warm between his thighs, and to his shock, Cullen abruptly leaned over, as though gathering his courage, though he stopped just short of stealing a kiss, as though waiting, uncertain - it was Dorian who leaned closer, just a fraction, and he felt a whispery sigh shake through Cullen as Cullen drew closer, a gloved hand rubbing up over the small of Dorian’s back. 

It certainly wasn’t Cullen’s first turn at a rodeo, but there was a sweet sort of hesitation to his touch, as though he were unused to intimacy of late, and Dorian was, in many ways, a greedy man. Their kiss grew demanding, deeper, until Dorian’s helmet rolled off onto the gravel and Cullen’s tongue was thrusting into his mouth, a groan crushed between them as they kissed and kissed.

“Never,” Cullen panted, in between gulped breaths, “Never thought I could, I… never thought you might want this-“

“Sometimes I’m convinced that you live in an utterly different universe inside your own head,” Dorian said, cupping Cullen’s cheeks with his own gloved palms, and at Cullen’s confused stare, added, “You’re bloody _gorgeous_ , General. Or did you think that all those Vanity Fair interviews were because of your tactical abilities?”

Cullen blushed a little. “Leliana strongarmed me into doing those. For ‘morale’, she said. Maker, I _hate_ photoshoots.”

“One of Thedas’ most eligible bachelors,” Dorian recalled the headline off the top of his head, and grinned sharply when Cullen’s blush turned even more ruddy. “I’m quite possibly trampling over the hearts of thousands of young maidens right now.”

“Half of my datanet mail is fanmail,” Cullen admitted, though he kissed Dorian playfully on the nose when Dorian didn’t pull back. “Not all of it from women.”

“Only half? I’m shocked.”

“Much of the other half seems to be forwarded ‘humorous’ images of cats from Sera.” 

“She’s convinced that you need to ‘lighten up’, I think her words were.” Dorian set his palms gently over Cullen’s shoulders. “Is this a date?” he teased. “No wine? No flowers?” 

“You drink enough as it is,” Cullen retorted, though he looked a little embarrassed. “Am I going too fast?”

“The world’s ending, General.” Dorian gentled his tone, and pulled Cullen back down towards him. “There’s no time like the present.”

III.

“And then?” Sera demanded. “You did the nasty on the bike?”

“No…?” Dorian drank another sip of the foul beer in the local bar, Sera perched on the chair beside him, her legs splayed in a most unladylike manner as she leaned over, grinning. 

“How about since then? It’s been days!”

“No.”

“Seriously? He brings you all the way out there… and you _don’t_ do it? Did you kiss, at least?”

“Well yes.”

“Did you kiss like,” Sera pursed her lips, batting her eyelashes as though pretending to be a shy maid, “Or did he push you over the bike and suck your face?”

“I don’t think that I’m drunk enough to have this conversation with you.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Sera sprawled back against the table, giggling. “This is awesome news. _Awe-_ some. That man’s got, like, a huge stick up his arse, yeah. You’re going to need some serious pliers to get it out, but, good on you for trying.”

Dorian grimaced. “And with that thought, I’m off.” 

“ _Pliers!_ ” Sera yelled, as Dorian stumbled a little unsteadily out of the bar, and burst into a storm of giggles. Turning up the collar of his coat against the stiff night breeze, Dorian re-tucked his scarf around his neck, glancing up towards the old tower where the General’s office was. Unsurprisingly, despite the late hour, the lights were still on, and Dorian shook his head slowly as he ambled over to the stairs. 

Letting himself into the base of the tower, Dorian hesitated when he saw that he wasn’t alone. Cullen was kneeling before his bike, tinkering with something or other, dressed in a pair of old jeans and a discoloured shirt, greasy to his elbows. The newly fitted electric lights were dimmed down a fraction, casting Cullen’s face in soft shadow, and Dorian found himself grinning, a little wolfishly, as Cullen blinked up at him and started to rise, wiping off his hands on a rag.

“Dorian? Isn’t it late to be up and about?”

“I should say the same for you. We _do_ have mechanics for this sort of work, don’t we?”

“I like working on her,” Cullen said, a little defensively. “It’s calming. Keeps my hands busy.” 

And it was also… rather… sexy as hell, Dorian thought, as he looked Cullen up and down again. The sleeves of the shirt were rolled up high on Cullen’s arms, enough to show the faint, silvery sheen of the augments set on his flesh, smudged on the left with a greasy thumbprint, and lust curled all of a sudden in Dorian’s belly. It was probably obvious on his face: Cullen had started to blush. 

“Ah… I might go and get cleaned up…” 

“On the contrary,” Dorian purred, “There’s something that I’ve been thinking of doing for a while. Ever since you brought me out to that lake.” 

“Doing what?” Cullen asked, his voice going hushed, the way it did whenever the General was starting to grow uncertain: it was so beautifully different from his usual, confident tone, and now, as always, it felt as though to Dorian that this part of Cullen was private, just for Dorian himself, like a secret between them both that Dorian would take gladly to his grave.

“Sit down on your bike.” Dorian instructed, and Cullen obeyed, his eyes growing wider and wider as Dorian sauntered over and went down as gracefully as he could on his knees. “This won’t fall over or anything, would it?” 

“As… as long as, oh Maker, we don’t lean too hard on it… Dorian, are you sure…?”

“I’m sure,” Dorian said, smirking up, Cullen’s gorgeous, muscular thighs sleek at either side of his shoulders. “Unless you don’t want to.”

“I, well, if you’re willing, and, _Maker_ ,” Cullen breathed, as Dorian undid the top button of Cullen’s jeans with his mouth, hah, and then pulled the zip teasingly down with his teeth. “Sweet Maker.” 

Cullen was uncut, always a lovely surprise, and Dorian tucked his tongue under the foreskin, smirked to himself as knees pushed against his shoulders, startled, and big hands curled into his hair, petting awkwardly. Dorian could smell oil and steel and leather, the machine-scent of the gleaming engine behind Cullen’s thighs, the musk of Cullen’s arousal as Dorian took all that thickening flesh into his mouth, wrapping a moan around it as he swallowed. 

Dorian was prepared for the buck into his mouth, down his throat, and he took it as smoothly as he could, a chuckle stifled around flesh when Cullen rambled a breathless apology, hips still twitching, then bucking again as Dorian tugged at Cullen’s hip with his free hand. It was sloppy like this, and his throat would be raw in the morning, but Dorian did love this sort of play in the oldest dance between people, the way his partner would choke from words to whines and then prayer. Cullen breathed a sob shaped around a garbled gasp of Dorian’s name, and the ache in Dorian’s pleated pants grew painful. 

“Please,” Cullen breathed, “Maker, Dorian, your _mouth_ \- please, _please_ -“ Dorian groaned in response, and that seemed to be all it took: Cullen jerked against him with a hoarse cry.

“Sorry,” Cullen gasped, as Dorian swallowed what he could and wiped up the rest with a handkerchief. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to - sorry.” 

“Of course you meant to,” Dorian said, his voice roughened by the treatment. “I’ll be insulted if you didn’t.”

“I… meant… never mind,” Cullen muttered. “I’ll, ah, help you with. Yours.” 

“Cullen-“ Dorian began, but Cullen was already tucking himself back in, getting off the bike with unsteady legs. 

“Up on the bike. Your turn,” Cullen grinned, a little breathless, a little playful, and Dorian laughed as he got to his feet, straddling the smooth leather of the seat as directed. Cullen buried his face against Dorian’s shoulder as he drew Dorian out from his pants, chuckling as Dorian leaned back against him, eyes closing. 

“Wanted to do this to you at the lake,” Cullen whispered, as he spat in his palm. “Stretch you out on the leather. Watch you come.”

“Why didn’t you?” Dorian drawled, bucking into Cullen’s fist as it closed over him.

“Seemed… seemed a little rude at the time. Abrupt.”

“General, you have my permission to be as rude as you like, whenever you want.” It was Dorian’s turn to go breathless, as Cullen stroked him, roughly, not bothering to tease, and he was conscious of Cullen watching, his heavy stare; Dorian made a show of it, moaning, rolling his hips, arching when he finally came, painting a white streak over leather and steel. It felt obscene, and Dorian treasured the little, strangled hitch he heard in Cullen’s voice, half-hidden against Dorian’s collar.

“Maker,” Cullen whispered. “You’re amazing.”

“I know,” Dorian agreed, all to hide the leap his heart had made at the words. “Next time, I expect to be fucked over this beast.” He angled a smirk at Cullen that was quickly covered by a slanting kiss, a low laugh, and a tentative press of a quick tongue. “But for now, how about we get somewhere warmer?” 

“I thought you’d never ask.”

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent


End file.
